Finding Lucy

This year is about returning to WONDER.

Among the several movies the Hubs and I watched during Christmastide was the 2005 classic The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. Though I have watched this several times, and read the book even more — Narnia is never far from my consciousness — it had been a while, and I was surprised at how deeply this particular viewing affected me. 

Translation: I sobbed outright at the end.

Now, leaving Narnia always makes me sad, but this was different from the familiar ache of being thrust back to small-“r” reality after a glimpse of True Home. This time, I wasn’t just missing Narnia; I was missing Lucy. 

More specifically, I was missing the Lucy in me.

I’ve always identified closely with Lucy (and not just because she, like me, is the youngest of four siblings). I’ve also aspired to be more like her: Lucy is the first one to enter the wardrobe and find Narnia; she’s usually the first to recognize Aslan; it is her childlike faith and readiness towards wide-eyed wonderment (NOT cheerful platitudes or blind optimism) that draw those around her — including the reader — deeper into the Story. 

I’ve talked a lot about Wonder on this blog. I’ve even used it as the crux of my personal mission statement as a storyteller:

I believe my job is to seek out Wonder and share it with as many people as possible, as often as possible, conveying as much Beauty and Joy as possible.

Hence my affinity for Lucy. Finding wonder is usually easy for me; but the past few years have been . . . difficult. Not personally — I have no complaints — but I’m sure we can all agree that the general worldwide forecast feels rather heavy. And it seems almost cruel to believe in Wonder and Joy and Beauty when so many loved ones I know — and countless others I don’t know — are suffering under that heaviness. 

So, as the wardrobe door closed and the credits rolled, I cried. I cried because the Lucy in me feels beaten down by the grim reality of the world. I cried because I realized that, in an effort to avoid naïve complacency, I had turned away from her; not entirely, but enough to make the wound bleed profusely when it was pricked. I cried because I recognized that I had, yet again, confused cynicism for maturity — and, in so doing, I had unwittingly neglected my vision statement.

So this year is about finding Lucy. 

It’s about acknowledging that each of us has a part to play in the Story, and if this is my part, then living it fully is the best gift I can possibly give. 

It’s about remembering that true Wonder does not ignore suffering, but illuminates and transcends it. 

It’s about seeking that Wonder with eyes wide open — not to hoard it, nor to bury my head in it, but to be a vessel for it whenever and however I can.